Burning Lines Into The Snow
by MirrorShard
Summary: Post CW AU: It's not just the team that's so broken they are barely able to comprehend how many parts they're missing now, how many have been ripped and twisted and torn. It's Tony as well, right down to the core, the damage so far-reaching even he doesn't know how to fix it. And then there's Strange, who has his own way of covering the cracks.


_Another old fic I wrote two years ago on AO3 while I was still dealing with the mess that was Civil War. I still haven't watched Endgame, but to say that I'm apprehensive would be an absolute understatement. Makes me nostalgic for when I was last struggling with a MCU movie, even tho I haven't seen it yet_

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**Burning Lines Into The Snow**

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"You're not listening!" Steve accuses sharply, fire burning restlessly behind too blue eyes. It's not the building frustration or the first beginnings of anger exactly but the tenor of unrelenting steel echoed in every syllable that causes Tony to freeze in his place.

It has happened before, ever since the exiled Avengers have returned on American soil again, if Tony's honest. The fire that burns so bright and all-consuming in Steve hasn't lost an ounce of its intensity during his time on the run and nowadays, with the entire world on the brick of a war it can't afford to loose, it seems to be the only thing the resistance has left to draw strength from.

Everyone but Tony, that is.

Oh, he can still taste the fire of Steve's willingness to fight, to win, on the tip of his tongue, can still feel the flames licking at his fingers, blazing hot but never burning. It's not the same anymore though. Tony feels no warmth in those glistering flames, no all-encompassing heat in Steve's every touch. There is no soothing hum in the back of his mind, no lulling sensation of being wrapped up in soft blankets and sipping hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire.

It used to be like that, Tony knows, although the memories become blurrier and more out-of-focus with every passing day. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, Tony can almost feel them, a shadow of complete _safety_ tickling along his nerve endings, gone a moment later, before he has the chance to grab a hold of it.

Of course Tony keeps his eyes wide open all the time now, suit on call at any given moment. Not that it matters.

It doesn't matter that he can't bring himself to turn his back onto his own team. Doesn't matter that sometimes he rubs his shoulders against the nearest wall until the skin is red and prickling, as raw as Tony feels.

Because Tony hasn't been warm since Siberia. Hasn't slept. Hasn't smiled. Hasn't _breathed_. And it doesn't matter. There's a war hammering against their door and no one can afford for it to matter.

Tony swallows. Does it a second time, hard enough to be borderline painful. Tries to gather his thoughts, to remember anything besides burning blue eyes staring him down, down, down. But it's like the unforgiving cold Tony feels in the face of Steve's burning fire has frozen his thoughts, crystallised them, beautiful in the most vulnerable way, and all it takes is a gentle puff of breath for them to shatter as Tony watches helplessly. It's a pretty picture, thousands upon thousands of splinters of pure ice, glinting like diamonds in the early sunlight. Cutting just as easily, just as deep.

Steve as per usual is too caught up in it, the fight, _because it's always about the fight, isn't it_, to notice. Tony hasn't thought he would still be bitter, could still get more bitter, but. Some wounds don't heal, only fester, and the gap of words unspoken and mistakes unacknowledged between the two of them grows steadily.

"I'm serious, Stark!" Steve bellows, incensed perhaps by Tony's lack of attention or simply the entire situation. The Captain, _never Cap_, slaps both hands onto the table, causing the wood to creak in protest at its forceful handling and Tony's thoughts just- give. Fracture. _Shatter_.

Torn metal. Cold stone. Wood ripped apart. A shield crushing _everything_.

"Enough!" a new voice speaks up, sharp and unyielding and it's that wordless demand for attention that Tony clings to, allows him to rearrange his mind until the past is the past and the present the present and Tony _here_.

Strange stands in the room. Tony can't remember when the guy entered but he's somehow managed to place himself between Steve and Tony without actually blocking their sight of each other, his stern gaze fixated on Steve. His presence loosens some of the tension Tony hasn't even realised has been building in his muscles.

"We need to become proactive now, whilst Thanos is still gathering his forces, not after the first attacks are already over!" Steve snaps, impatience curled so tightly around his frame it looks physically painful.

It's all Tony can do not to flinch at the veiled accusations, the unspoken _You're not doing enough_ shadowing his every conversation with his former childhood idol.

Something warm and surprisingly soft settles around his shoulders in an odd mimicry of a hug and Tony frowns down at the red fabric in confusion for a moment before he half-heartedly tries to shrug the damn thing off. Tony _hates_ that stupid, magic coat Strange insists on wearing. The ugly, glorified doormat defies everything Tony believes in, and to add insult to injury it tends to cling to him like a shy toddler to its mother's leg.

Tony refuses to acknowledge the indulging fondness he's begun to associate with the stubborn coat, nor the gentle, comforting waves of warmth it makes him feel that have nothing on Steve's blazing heat and are somehow all the more welcome because of it.

"And we've got a War Council where your input is valued and welcome at any given time," Strange retorts calmly, clearly unimpressed by Steve's argument and making no effort to hide it.

"That's-"

"I said _enough_!" Strange interrupts, his voice growing colder even as the coat tightens its grip on Tony, as though wanting to cover him in his entity. "This is neither the place nor time for this discussion. Now _leave_, Rogers. You are not welcome here."

Strange's stony expression conveys clearly that he means every word he says and expects his command to be followed without protest. Steve lingers for another moment, fists clenched and lips pressed into a thin, white line, but Tony feels strangely untouched by the wave of rage the other man emits, huddled away in the thick, red coat as he is, before Steve turns on his heels and slams the door shut behind him.

A moment of silence follows, in which Tony simply allows himself to bask in something that's not quite safety but still hits pretty damn close. When he looks up again, it's to meet Strange's ever watching eyes. They are blue but cold, in a way Steve's could never be, and that in itself is more comforting than it should be.

"You need to stand up to them," Strange says finally, but not unkindly. "They have as much power over you as you give them and that's perhaps the only thing you'll have any control over in the days to come."

"I know," Tony answers, the words hollow for all that they are true. Thankfully Strange lets the subject drop, instead steers the conversation towards an experiment Tony's been needling the man to participate in.

Part of Tony is aware that Strange's unusually chatty behaviour is probably an attempt at comfort, just as part of him knows very well that the man he's gotten to know over the past few months doesn't _do_ comfort. Tony is tired though, wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, and for once he's willing to accept the other man's atypical actions without a demand for explanations or inappropriate jokes.

The walk to Tony's workshop is comfortable. Strange stays by his side, cloak securely wrapped around Tony's shoulders, and if the rest of the Avengers give the man a wide berth when they cross the pair's path, Tony is too distracted by the intellectually stimulating conversation and pleasant, fluttery feeling in his chest to pay them any mind.

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_I guess IronStrange is just one of those pairings I really enjoy but always lack the inspiration to write. Probably because I just keep picturing Strange as Sherlock *shrugs*_


End file.
